By the end of the third day, Pax no longer needed to count faces to know how many eyes now belonged to him.

He had recruited thirty more beggars, bringing the total up to fifty, not fifty followers, not fifty soldiers, and certainly not fifty mouths shouting loyalty or demanding purpose. Just fifty presences.

They were scattered across Greyvale like dust. unremarkable and easily ignored, dismissed by instinct before conscious thought could even register them.

Beggars leaned against walls, old men sat near wells, women hunched beneath threadbare cloaks at alley corners, and children pretended to sleep beside bakery doors. Figures so common that no one truly saw them.

And that was precisely why Pax trusted them.The courtyard that served as the quiet heart of Grey Veil remained unchanged, no banners, no guards, no visible signs of importance.

Soup simmered every morning; bread was handed out without questions asked. The chalk mark appeared only where it needed to, faint and temporary, wiped away by rain or footsteps.

But beneath that simplicity, something had begun to take shape.

One afternoon, Pax stood near the back wall of the courtyard, listening to nothing and everything at once.

His eyes were unfocused; his posture relaxed; his breathing steady. Anyone passing by would have assumed he was just another tired man leaning against stone and lost in thought.

In truth, his mind raced faster than it ever had in his life.

This was the day he decided to test the city and see how rumors are shaped and tavel fast.

The idea had struck him the night before as he stared at the chalk-marked slate board and realized something crucial: information didn't spread because it was true; it spread because it felt right,because it confirmed fear, desire, or expectation, and because it fit into the shapes people already carried inside them.

If he wanted to understand Greyvale's pulse better than ever before, he couldn't just listen anymore; he had to poke at it.

So Pax designed an experiment: one rumor with five versions released simultaneously. Each version crafted carefully,not louder or more sensational but subtly different in tone and emotional hook.

Each assigned to a specific group within those fifty beggars,seeded in various districts at different times of day through different voices.

No recruit knew the full picture or purpose; they were simply told one thing: "Say this once and then listen."

The first version was simple and dry:

"I heard the Adventurer Guild failed a mission yesterday. Something about a delayed escort."

This was planted among dockworkers near the eastern piers, people who dealt with schedules and delays daily. Pax suspected they would either dismiss it or let it die quietly.

The second version sparked curiosity:

"Apparently, someone important tested the Adventurer Guild, and the results weren't what they expected."

This version spread among low-ranking merchants, shop clerks, ledger keepers, and assistants who thrived on half-truths and speculation. Pax anticipated this would spark questions.

The third version carried an undercurrent of fear.

"I heard the Adventurer Guild angered someone powerful. That's why things have been so quiet."

This was spread near taverns where mercenaries and guards gathered. Pax suspected this one would evolve quickly.

The fourth version hinted at opportunity.

"They say the Adventurer Guild accomplished something no one else could. Too quickly. Almost suspiciously."

This narrative circulated among caravan guards and runners,individuals who prioritized efficiency above all else.

The fifth version blended a lie with a grain of truth.

"The Adventurer Guild is being watched. That's why missions are suddenly finishing faster."

This rumor found its way to beggars stationed near administrative buildings, places where paranoia thrived comfortably.

Pax released them all before noon and then he waited.

By evening, patterns began to emerge from the chaos.

The first version fizzled out exactly as Pax had predicted. Dockworkers shrugged it off; delays were commonplace, failure was dull. By sunset, it had vanished entirely.

The second version spread slowly but steadily. It didn't grow louder but lingered persistently, attaching questions like barnacles: Who tested them? Why? What happened? It morphed into a rumor that hung in the air without resolution.

The third version exploded with intensity.

Fear always did that. By nightfall, "angered someone powerful" transformed into "angered multiple factions," which then shifted to "the Guildmaster insulted a noble," eventually escalating to "someone is going to make an example of them."

It spread rapidly, and inaccurately. The fourth version traveled smoothly and cleanly without much distortion at all. Efficiency resonated with caravan folk; they repeated it accurately because accuracy mattered to them, a detail Pax noted carefully.

The fifth version proved most intriguing as it split in two directions. Half saw it as validation, of course someone important was watching. The other half twisted it into suspicion, if they're being watched, maybe they're dangerous?

Though this rumor didn't travel far, where it did circulate, behavior changed noticeably. People lingered near the Guild longer; they observed who entered and exited; they paid attention more than before.

Pax stood in the courtyard long after sunset, absorbing reports as they trickled in, not all at once or in neat order but as fragments quietly delivered by individuals who knew better than to draw attention to themselves.

He didn't offer praise. He didn't give corrections. He simply nodded and asked for precise wording, exact timing, and specific locations.

By midnight, Pax had absorbed more about Greyvale than he had in the last ten years combined.

He pinpointed the natural amplifiers of rumor.Some taverns fueled fear but twisted the truth. Certain markets heightened opportunity while downplaying risk.Specific districts leaned toward narratives driven by authority.

Trust naturally gravitated toward certain voices, older men with calm tones and women who spoke rarely but with precision.

And some individuals, no matter how loud their voices,were simply ignored. Afterward, Pax sat alone, the flickering lantern light casting shadows as he retrieved a thick ledger bound in plain brown leather.

This wasn't Sage's ledger. This one would remain hidden from view.

He dipped his brush into ink and carefully wrote the title: Intelligence Ledger — Volume One

Inside, he didn't start with names. Instead, he documented patterns. Which types of rumors spread most rapidly, where distortions took place, which social classes resisted fear and which ones embraced it.

He sketched symbols instead of words: arrows, circles, breakpoints. This ledger wasn't about secrets; it was about predictability.

As he closed the book, Pax leaned back and let out a slow breath.

Just a few days ago, he had been a man clutching ten gold coins, burdened by fear of responsibility.

Now he held something far weightier: understanding. And understanding, Pax realized, was the most dangerous currency of all.

No one in Greyvale had noticed him these past few days. No one questioned the beggars any more than usual.

No one traced whispers back to their origins.

That was the final confirmation he needed:

The most dangerous man in Greyvale right now… was the man no one was searching for.

"I'm...doing really good. The Guildmaster will be really proud."

Pax smiled faintly as the lantern light caught his eyes while he slid the ledger into a hidden compartment beneath a stone in the courtyard.

In a few days, he would report only what Sage needed to know, not the noise or chaos, but merely the shape of the storm ahead.

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